by Sandra Hill
sennight—one week.
skald—poet.
skyr—a Norse cheese similar to cottage cheese.
steward—a man responsible for day-to-day running of the castle or keep.
sulung—the area that could be kept under cultivation by a single plough team of eight oxen, equal to two hides.
thane—a member of the noble class below earls but above freemen. Usually a landowner.
thrall—slave.
tun—252 gallons, as of ale.
vassal—a freeman who owns land.
wattle and daub—an early method of building.
wergild—a man’s worth.
Witan (or Witenagemot)—a king’s advisory council, made up of nobles and ecclesiatics.
* * *
Dark and Dangerous Ways…
Dearest Reader,
Why is it that the unrepentant rake, brooding duke, or wicked rogue never fails to set even the most sensible hearts aflutter?
And what happens when a sensible lady plays with fire, unafraid to get burned?
This winter feel the heat with four new, delicious romances—from New York Times bestselling authors Elizabeth Boyle, Sandra Hill, and Kerrelyn Sparks and talented debut author Sarah MacLean—in which scandalous heroes meet their matches at last, in ladies who know that sometimes bad can be gloriously good…
* * *
Coming January 2010
How I Met My Countess
The first in a new series
from New York Times bestselling author
Elizabeth Boyle
When Lucy Ellyson, the improper daughter of an infamous spy, saves the Earl of Clifton’s life, he decides to make her his countess. But then the irresistible chit vanishes and Clifton is certain he’s lost her forever…until he discovers she’s living in Mayfair, as scandalous as ever and in the sort of trouble only a hasty marriage can solve. But before Clifton can step in, secrets from the past emerge, threatening to ruin them both.
While the Earl of Clifton had been expecting a scullery maid or even a housekeeper to respond to Mr. Ellyson’s shouted orders, the gel who arrived in the man’s study left him taken aback.
Her glorious black hair sat piled atop her head, the pins barely holding it there, the strands shimmering with raven lights and rich, deep hues. They were the sort of strands that made one think of the most expensive courtesans, the most elegant and desirable ladies.
Yet this miss wore a plain muslin gown, over which she’d thrown an old patched green sweater. There were mitts on her hands, for the rest of the house was cold, and out from beneath the less than tidy hem of her gown, a pair of very serviceable boots stuck out.
This was all topped off with the large splotch of soot decorating her nose and chin.
She took barely a glance at Clifton or his brother before her hands fisted to her hips. “Whatever are you doing shouting like that? I’m not deaf, but I fear I will be if you insist on bellowing so.”
Crossing the room, she swatted Ellyson’s hand off the map he was in the process of unrolling. Plucking off her mitts and swiping her hand over her skirts—as if that would do the task and clean them—she caught up the map and reshelved it. “I doubt you need Paris as yet.”
There was a presumptuous note of disdain in her voice, as if she, like Ellyson himself, had shelved their guests with the same disparagement that she had just given the errant map.
And in confirmation, when she cast a glance over her shoulder and took stock of them, it was with a gaze that was both calculating and dismissive all at once. “Why not begin with ensuring that they know how to get to the coast,” she replied, no small measure of sarcasm dripping from her words.
Ellyson barked a short laugh, if one could call it a laugh. But her sharp words amused the man. “Easy girl, they’ve Pymm’s blessing. We’re to train them up.”
“Harrumph,” she muttered, putting one more stamp of disapproval on the notion.
Clifton straightened. It was one thing to be dismissed by a man of Ellyson’s stature, but by a mere servant? Well, it wasn’t to be borne. He opened his mouth to protest, but Malcolm nudged him.
Don’t wade into this one, little brother, his dark eyes implored.
“I need to start with Lisbon,” Ellyson said. “But demmed if I can find it.”
“Here,” she said, easily locating the map from the collection. “Anything else?” Her chapped hands were back on her hips and she shot another glance over her shoulder at Clifton, her bright green eyes revealing nothing but dismay, especially when her gaze fell to the puddles of water at his feet and the trail of mud from his boots.
Then she looked up at him with a gaze that said one thing: You’d best not expect me to clean that up.
Clifton could only gape at her. He’d never met such a woman.
Well, not outside of a public house.
Bossy termagant of a chit, still he couldn’t stop watching her, for there was a spark to this Lucy that dared to settle inside his chest.
She was, with that hair and flashing eyes, a pretty sort of thing in an odd way. But she held herself so that a man would have to have a devilish bit of nerve to tell her so.
Then she shocked him, or at least, he thought it was the most shocking thing he’d ever heard.
“Papa, I haven’t all day and I’ve a roast to see to, as well as the pudding to mix.”
Papa? Clifton’s mouth fell open. This bossy chit was Ellyson’s daughter?
No, in the world of the Ellysons, Clifton quickly discovered, such a notion wasn’t shocking in the least.
Not when weighed against what her father said in reply. “Yes, yes, of course. But before you see to dinner, I have it in mind for you to become Lord Clifton’s new mistress. What say you, Goosie?” he asked his daughter as casually as one might inquire if the pudding was going to include extra plums. “How would you like to fall in love with an earl?”
Lucy glanced over her shoulder and looked at the man standing beside the door. Very quickly, she pressed her lips together to keep from bursting out with laughter at the sight of the complete and utter shock dressing the poor earl’s features. He had to be the earl, for the other man hadn’t the look of a man possessing a title and fortune.
Oh, heavens! He thinks Papa is serious. And in a panic over how to refuse him.
Not that a very feminine part of her felt a large stab of pique.
Well, you could do worse, she’d have told him, if the other man in the room, the one by the window, the earl’s brother from the looks of him, hadn’t said, “Good God, Gilby! Close your mouth. You look like a mackerel.”
The fellow then doubled over with laughter. “’Sides I doubt Ellyson is serious.”
Lucy didn’t reply, nor did her father, but that was to be expected, for Papa was already onto the next step of his plans for the earl and his natural brother, and therefore saw no polite need to reply.
“Sir, I can hardly…I mean as a gentleman…” the earl began.
Lucy turned toward him, one brow cocked and her hands back on her hips. It was the stance she took when the butcher tried to sell her less than fresh mutton.
The butcher was a devilish cheat, so it made ruffling this gentleman’s fine and honorable notions akin to child’s play.
Clifton swallowed and took a step back, which brought him right up against the wall.
Literally and figuratively.
“What I mean to say is that while Miss Ellyson is…is…that is to say I am…” He closed his eyes and shuddered.
Actually shuddered.
Well, a lady could only take so much.
Lucy sauntered past him, flicked a piece of lint off the shoulder of his otherwise meticulous jacket, and tossed a smile up at him. “Don’t worry, Gilby,” she purred, using the familiar name his brother had called him. “You don’t have to bed me.” She took another long glance at him—from his dark hair, the chiseled set of his aristocratic jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the long lines of his legs, to h
is perfectly polished boots—everything that was wealthy, noble, and elegant, then continued toward her father’s desk, tossing one more glance over her shoulder. “For truly, you aren’t my type.”
Which was quite true. Well, there was no arguing that the Earl of Clifon was one of the most handsome men who’d ever walked into her father’s house seeking his training to take on secretive “work” for the King, but Lucy also found his lofty stance and rigid features troubling.
He’ll not do, Papa, she wanted to say. For she considered herself an excellent judge of character. And this Clifton would have to set himself down a notch or two if he was going to stay alive, at the very least, let alone complete the tasks he would be sent to do.
No, he is too utterly English. Too proud. Too…too…noble.
And Lucy knew this all too well. For she’d spent a good part of her life watching the agents come and go from her father’s house. She knew them all.
And she also knew the very real truth about their situation: They may never come back. As much as she found it amusing to give this stuffy earl a bit of a tease, there was a niggle of worry that ran down her spine.
What if he doesn’t come back?
Well, I don’t care, she told herself, crossing the room and putting her back to the earl. She opened a drawer and handed a folder to her father, who through this exchange had been muttering over the mess of papers and correspondence atop his desk. “I think you need these,” she said softly.
Her father opened it up, squinted at the pages inside, and then nodded. “Ah, yes. Good gel, Goosie.” He turned back to Clifton. “Whatever has you so pale? I don’t expect you to deflower the gel, just carry her love letters.”
“Letters?” Clifton managed.
“Yes, letters,” Lucy explained. “I write coded letters to you as if I were your mistress and you carry them to Lisbon.” She strolled over, reached up, and patted his chest. “You put them right next to your heart.” She paused and gazed up at him. “You have one of those, don’t you?”
Coming February 2010
Viking in Love
The first in a new series
from New York Times bestselling author
Sandra Hill
Breanne and her sisters are more than capable of taking care of themselves—just ask the last man who crossed them. But when a hasty escape lands them in the care of a Viking warrior, the ladies know they have at last met a worthy quarry. After nine long months in the king’s service, all Caedmon wanted was…well, certainly not five Norse princesses running his keep. And after the fiery redhead bursts into his chamber on the very first morning…Caedmon settles on a wicked plan far more delightful than kicking her out.
Beware of women with barbed tongues…
Caedmon was splatted out on his stomach, half-awake, knowing he must rise soon. This was a new day and a new start for getting his estate and his family back in order.
In his head he made a list.
First, gather the entire household and establish some authority. Someone had been lax in assigning duties and making sure they were completed. The overworked Gerard, no doubt. And the absent Alys.
Second, take stock of the larder. Huntsmen would go out for fresh meat, fishermen for fish, and he would send someone to Jarrow to purchases spices and various other foodstuffs.
Third, designate Geoff and Wulf to work with the housecarls on fighting skills and rotating guard schedules.
Fourth, replenish the supply of weaponry.
Fifth, persuade the cook to return. The roast boar yestereve had been tough as leather, made palatable only by the tubfuls of feast ale and strong mead they had consumed.
Sixth, the children…ah, what to do about the children? One of the cotters’ wives…or John the Bowman’s widow…could supervise their care, and a monk from the minster in Jorvik might be induced to come and tutor them, although his history with Father Luke did not bode well for his chances.
The door to his bedchamber swung open, interrupting his mental planning. The headboard of his bed was against the same wall as the door, so he merely turned his head to the left and squinted one eye open.
A red-haired woman—dressed in men’s attire…highborn men’s attire, at that—stood glaring at him, hands on hips. She was tall for a woman, and thin as a lance. As for breasts, if she had any, they must be as flat as rounds of manchet bread. “Master Caedmon, I presume?”
“Well, I do not know about the ‘Master’ part. What manner dress is that? Are you man or woman?” He smiled, trying for levity.
She did not return the smile.
No sense of humor.
“You are surely the most loathsome lout I have e’er encountered.”
Whaaaat? He had not been expecting an attack. In fact, he needed a moment for his sleep-hazed brain to take in this apparition before him.
“Your keep is filthy, pigs broke through the sty fence and are all over the bailey, I saw dozens of mice scampering in your great hall, thatch needs replacing on the cotters’ huts, you beget children like an acorn tree gone wild, your staff take their ease like high nobility, there are several blubbering servants arguing over who will bury the priest who is laid out in your chapel, and you…you slothful sluggard, you lie abed, sleeping off a drukkin night, no doubt.”
Whoa! One thing was for certain. This would not be yet another woman trying to crawl into his bed furs. “Stop shrieking. You will make my ears bleed.” Caedmon rolled over on his side, tugging the bed linen up to cover his lower half, then sat up.
“Bestir thyself!”
“Nay!”
“Have you no shame?”
“Not much.”
“Are you lackbrained?”
“No more than you for barging into my bedchamber.”
“Even if you have no coin, there is no excuse for the neglect.”
“Not even the fact that I have been gone nine long months in service to a king undeserving of service?”
“Where is the lady of this estate?”
’Tis just like a woman to think a woman is the answer to everything! “There is no lady.”
“Hmpfh! Why am I not surprised?”
Now he was getting annoyed. “Sarcasm ill suits you, m’lady. Have you ne’er been told that?”
“The blade goes both ways, knave.”
His eyes went wide at her foolhardy insults. “Who in bloody hell are you?”
“Breanne of Stoneheim.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“She’s a princess,” someone called out from the corridor. He saw now that a crowd of people were standing just outside the open doorway, being entertained by this shrew’s railing at him. Geoff and Wulf were in the forefront, of course, laughing their arses off.
“Well, Princess Breanne, what do you in my home and my bedchamber?”
She had the grace to blush. “My sisters and I came here, on our way…as a stopping-off place…for a…uh, visit…on our journey. Your castellan offered us hospitality.”
He could tell by the deepening red on her cheeks that she was either lying or stretching the truth.
“Sisters?”
“She has four sisters,” Geoff offered. “All princesses.”
Five princesses? Here? Oh, Lord!
“And they are accompanied by two scowling Vikings who are about this tall,” Wulf added, holding a hand high above his head. And Wulf was a big man by any standard.
“They were only scowling because your archers aimed their bows at them,” the lady declared, doing her own good job of scowling.
“’Tis a comfort, your explanation is. I feel so much better.”
Caedmon could practically hear the grinding of her small, white teeth.
“And there is a wise man from the eastern lands who has opinions on every bloody thing in the world, most of it involving camels.” As usual, Geoff was enjoying himself at his expense.
“Why me? I mean, why stop here at Larkspur?” he asked the bothersome woman. “
Surely there are better places.”
“My sister Tyra is your cousin.”
He frowned. “I have no cousin named Tyra.” Leastways, he did not think he did, but then he was still wooly-witted from sleep.
“Her husband, Adam of Hawkshire, is your cousin by marriage…um, slightly removed,” the flame-haired witch explained.
He knew Adam, or rather he had heard of him. A famed healer. But their connection by blood was far removed.
“Did you know there is a child still in nappies walking about nigh naked? He could be trampled by dogs the size of small ponies roaming about indoors.”
“Have a caution, wench. You have already passed the bounds of good sense. Any more, and you may taste the flavor of my wrath.”
She started to respond, then stopped herself.
“I told Emma to take care of Piers,” Caedmon said.
“Would that be the same Emma who spent the night spreading her thighs for the blond god?”
“She is referring to me,” Geoff preened. “The blond god.”
“And, by the by, why do all the females in this keep appear to have big bosoms?”
“Huh?”
Geoff and Wulf were laughing so hard they were bent over at their waists, holding their sides. When he was able to speak, Geoff said, “’Twould seem that Gerard has a preference for big breasts when choosing maids for inside work.” He gave particular emphasis to “inside work.”
“Gerard? Bloody hell! He is old enough to…never mind.”
“Not yet in his dotage, if he can still appreciate a buxom bosom,” Wulf observed.
Breanne waved a hand airily. “You are not to worry. My sisters and I will set your keep aright whilst we are here.”
